


If A Public Transit Bus Crashes Into Us

by flowercrownclem



Category: The Smiths
Genre: M/M, One Shot, Public Transportation, neither of them get hit by a bus
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-07
Updated: 2015-07-07
Packaged: 2018-04-08 03:19:06
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,565
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4288734
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/flowercrownclem/pseuds/flowercrownclem
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Johnny and Moz meet on a the last bus of the night and fall in love.</p>
            </blockquote>





	If A Public Transit Bus Crashes Into Us

He met him on the last bus out of town on a rainy night that neither can agree the exact date of. Morrissey had been sat huddled in the back of the bus, leaning against the window with a book in his lap, trying his hardest to be invisible. There were only a handful of people left on the bus and the number shrank at each stop.

Morrissey liked the bus, especially when he was able to nab the back corner seat. Some nights nobody would say a word and the bus overtook this library-like law of silence. On those days he almost felt as though he’d waken up from a deep sleep when he stepped off of the bus, like he’d been awoken from a spell. Those were days that he’d read.

The other days were the loud ones. On loud days, there would be some group of people, usually younger, who’d bring their conversation on the bus with them. Suddenly, the bus was filled with laughter and banter and life. Morrissey liked those days because he could spend the ride listening in and getting an hour-long snippet of these strangers’ lives. On those days he’d only pretend to read, tilting his head down to the book in his lap but ignoring it in favor for the stories all around him.

The night he met Johnny had until that point been a quiet one. It was late and cold and nobody seemed in a talking mood. Morrissey didn’t mind, just read his book with this coat draped around him like a blanket and his sweater sleeves pulled over his fists. He shivered when the doors opened, letting the last of the passengers out of the bus.

Morrissey was left the only person on the bus besides the driver. On these rare nights, he liked the absolute silence that came over the vehicle, only the comforting rock of the bus and the constant patter the of rain to break the trance. However, Morrissey could feel the shift in the driver’s course and the change of speed that broke his peaceful silence.

When the bus stopped and the doors opened, Morrissey craned his neck to see who was getting on. He could only see black hair and a dark coat, with some sort of an object in their arms. When the person turned down the aisle to sit, Morrissey quickly looked down to his book, missing his chance to see their face. The bus started moving again, but now Morrissey was slightly on edge as the boy (boy? He was pretty sure) rested a guitar case in the window seat halfway down the bus before flopping into the adjacent one, throwing his pencil-thin legs over the seat in front of him.

In the dim fluorescent lighting, Morrissey glanced up over the top of the seat in front of him, examining the other riders’ profile. From what he could see, the boy wasn’t particularly attractive, well not in the traditional sense, but there was something in the too-long curve of his neck and the point of his nose that Morrissey decided he liked. He also liked the casual sense in which he was draped across the seats, looking as at home as one could be.

The boy had only been sat down for less than a minute before he pulled out a yellow walkman and placed the headphones across his head. Morrissey could hear the faint music that was coming out of them from his seat, just a hint of sound that teased his ears. The problem was that it sounded familiar, he just couldn’t place it when he couldn’t properly hear it. It made him uneasy.

“What are you listening to?” he heard suddenly, not believing that it was his own voice. He shrank in on himself even more, his feet on the edge of his seat and his nose hidden between his knees. Johnny, across the bus, looked up for the source of the voice but when he couldn’t see anyone he settled back down. Morrissey, relieved, tucked his head against the window, closing his eyes.

He could almost feel himself falling asleep when a pressure on his head made him sit up straight, his eyes shooting open. Music filled his ears, the other boy leaning over the seat in front of him, his hands frozen on either side of Morrissey’s head. When their eyes met Johnny smirked, relaxing down into his new seat, his chin rested on the back to keep watching Morrissey.

Morrissey took a moment to listen to the music that the other boy was playing, resting his own chin on top of his knees.

“‘Boots’?” he asked, pointing to the walkman on Johnny’s hand. When Johnny raised a questioning eyebrow, he pulled the headphones off and supplied, “Nancy Sinatra. ‘Boots,’ right? That’s the tape? 1966…”

“Yeah, yeah. How did you…?”

“Do you have ‘How Does That Grab You?’ That one was released in ’66, too. It has ‘Bang, Bang’ on it so I like that one. You know it was originally sung by Cher, and Sonny wrote it but I prefer Nancy Sinatra’s version… What?” Morrissey asked, his dark eyebrows furrowing. “Sorry, was I rambling? My mum says I do that.”

Johnny was looking at him curiously, quirking his head before stretching his arm over the seat to offer his hand.

“Johnny Marr,” he introduced.

“Morrissey,” Morrissey replied, carefully.

“First name?” Johnny requested.

“I’ll never tell.”

“Very well- ha! That rhymed!” Johnny pointed out gleefully. He reached over to snatch the open book from the seat beside Morrissey, pulling it over to his side.

“Hey! You’ll lose my place,” Morrissey squawked.

“Shh,” Johnny waved him off, “You were on page one-oh-nine. If you forget that now it’s really only your own fault.”

Morrissey huffed, settling back and pulling the abandoned headphones back over his ears while Johnny flipped through his book. When ‘These Boots Were Made For Walking’ came to an end there was a light click and then silence. Morrissey pulled the headphones back off, slinging them loosely around Johnny’s neck.

“Finished?” Johnny asked.

“With that side, yeah.”

The pair fell into silence for a minute and Morrissey began to wonder if Johnny would simply return to his original seat and his guitar and leave him alone.

“What’s your favorite color?” Johnny burst out with suddenly.

“Seriously?” Morrissey laughed.

“Yeah, I couldn’t think of anything better,” Johnny grinned. "But come on, what is it?”

“Blue, I guess.”

Johnny tisked, “Not very original.”

“Neither was the question,” Morrissey pointed out. “Alright, what’s yours?”

“Black,” Johnny replied, a glint in his brown eyes.

“I could’ve guessed that one, really,” Morrissey told him.

Johnny laughed, climbing up onto his seat and standing up, putting his foot on the back of it and grabbing the pole above his head. “Favorite animal?”

“Cat,” Morrissey replied, looking up at the other boy incredulously. “Yours?”

“Get down from there,” the bus driver half-heartedly berated before Johnny could answer.

“Come on, James!” Johnny whined, turning his head towards the front, “It’s the last bus of the night!”

When the man gave an easily defeated sigh Johnny whooped gleefully, kicking up his feet to swing nearly over Morrissey’s head.

“C’mon, Moz,” Johnny climbed across the next row of seats, the nickname rolling easily off his tongue.

Morrissey tentatively hoisted himself up, following. Johnny began to leap across the aisle, using the bars like a jungle gym.

“Jaaaaaaames!!” he cried, focussing in on the weary driver. “Jamesjamesjamesjamesjamesjamesjames-!”

“What?” the man asked, exasperated.

“James, how can you expect us to enjoy any sort of a car ride without music? It’s a tragedy, James. Should be a crime, really.”

“You want music?”

“Yes please, dear James.”

“Fine,” the man grumbled, fiddling with the switches on his dashboard.

“Yes!” Johnny cheered, galloping back to Morrissey.

“Is he a friend of yours?” Moz asked quietly.

“Who, James? I’ve never met him before. If they’re going to put the drivers’ names up then they should only expect us to use them,” Johnny told him, smirking.

Soon the space was full of a pop station, blasting synthesizers and a sharp drum beat.

“Oh, _yes_!” Johnny laughed, “This is perfect! Thank you, James! Best driver I’ve ever had!”

He reached out, offering Morrissey his hand in a wry bow, “May I have this dance?”

“Oh, of course,” Morrissey took his hand and Johnny put his other hand around Morrissey’s waist. Johnny began to lead him up and down the aisle in a sloppy polka, spinning and leaping and laughing like mad. When the bus’ steady speed suddenly decreased they both went tumbling to the ground, tangled together and shaking with laughter.

“That’s the last stop, now please get off,” James begged them, pushing the doors open.

“Wait, what’s your stop?” Morrissey asked, detangling himself from Johnny.

“Oh mine past about twenty minutes ago,” Johnny grinned, brushing himself off.

“You won’t get another bus at this time,” Morrissey reminded him.

“I know,” Johnny told him.

“I guess I’m stuck with you until morning then?”

“Yep!”

“Well,” Morrissey mused, “it could be worse.”

“I’m offended!” Johnny exclaimed, putting a hand over his heart. “I’ll have you know that I’m the best thing that’ll ever happen to you.”

“I can’t wait.” As the stepped off the bus, their hands wound together and neither felt the biting chill of the air.


End file.
